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Cross-section of a piece of a length of rotten wood/ Dulux distillate of a bad egg/ raw, eviscerating slice made in a broken heart to air the wounds for medical diagnosis/opening carve natched into a hemisphere of gouder/ sliver of doubt worn by an extrovert/ dead log cut/ white no sugar/ tenderly modified shit/ joke playing lazy tennis with its own epiglottis/ tree felled/ fill my smile with your teeth/ depth of field/ breadth of defence/ height of ME/ slight of OOPS/ dearth of text/ hatred of rampant/ availability/ inabilty to stop extracting/ wish to/ desire to/ self-checking impulse to/ ok/'no' ain't easy/ retire temporarily/ (you were eighteen - and you treated your girlfriend like shit - lucky girlfriend)/ (hack)ed sculpture/ forest whittaker/ spelling-B/ isn't too tough/ acknowledged digression/ write yourself an exit wound/ creep, half-congealed/ in due course let me explain the eroticism in armpits/ a volley of digression/ love all/ until then/ ha
posted by Nick Hudson at 4:43 PM
1 Comments:
Is experimental prose dead, because the psuedo-reality of "the long now" is brimming with the embers of the modernist age? Can art recapture its vitality in this era of superdecadence? In the future, will fascism be equated to ancient Greece, and elevated to equal cultural stature? Is how our grandparents looked at the future actually how we look at the past? How does progress evolve when there isn't any present to evolve from? All of these questions are impossible to answer, so must be destroyed.
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